


Burning Up

by poselikeateam



Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Cults, Eternal Fire, Gallows Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Himbo Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Humor, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Torture, Incubus Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Little Shit, Jaskier | Dandelion Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Literally And Figuratively, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Religion, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25449277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: "Fire cannot burn a bard." —Jaskier, probablyOr: the one in which Jaskier can't keep his mouth shut even as he's about to be burned at the stake, Geralt is reminded why he does not like the Eternal Fire, and Jaskier maybe accidentally becomes a religious icon.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778233
Comments: 35
Kudos: 860





	Burning Up

Geralt has never liked the Eternal Fire. 

He’s always had what he considers to be a healthy sense of skepticism regarding religion. That is to say, he doesn’t really believe in any of it. He doesn’t have anything against it, necessarily — as long as people don’t use their faith to justify hurting others, or try to force it on him, Geralt really couldn’t be bothered. Most of the time, as long as he’s respectful about it, people don’t seem to care what he does or does not believe. Even Nenneke, a priestess of Melitele, can consider him a friend without trying to force him into sharing her faith. The thing is, when it comes to the Eternal Fire, “tolerance” isn’t in the cult’s vocabulary.

In places where that particular faith has dug its claws, people are downright _nasty_. They not only insist that one must have religion, but they also refuse to accept the existence of other faiths — if someone lives in Eternal Fire territory, they’d better not be caught, for example, praying to Freya, because their religion is the only one that is worth following. Furthermore, they have, at minimum, a deep distrust (though usually it’s a blind hatred) of nonhumans of any sort, which includes mages. The latter category _further_ includes anyone who does anything even remotely magical, like alchemists. Yeah, the people who cure ills. After all, if someone is sick, it’s just their fault for being a sinner, somehow; and if the Eternal Fire doesn’t cure them, it’s not proof that it doesn’t exist, but proof that that person deserved to die. Somehow, their religion will always be justified and justifiable, and questioning it just means the person asking questions is against them, and deserves to die. 

The punishment for doing, being, saying, or not reporting anything the Eternal Fire doesn’t like? Being burned at the stake. That’s right, they take anyone who doesn’t fit into their cult and tie them to a pyre, a twisted human sacrifice. And as far as the cult is concerned, it is enough to just be accused. If someone doesn’t like their neighbour, all they have to do is report that neighbour as a heretic, and onto the pyre they go. Unfortunately, in spite of — or, more likely, due to — its violent nature and the fear it instills, the cult has spread very far, very quickly.

Which, of course, leads to his current predicament: somehow, while he was on a hunt, Jaskier managed to piss off a priest of the Eternal Fire. Geralt isn’t even entirely sure how the fuck it happened — he’s only been gone for, what, three days? Why can’t he leave this idiot alone for _three days_? 

He has no clue. What he does know is that when he comes back, grave hag head in tow, there is a crowd, and a very large pile of kindling. As he gets closer, he realises that there is something tied to that kindling. Closer still, and he sees that it is someone. And then, he realises _who_.

Geralt drops Roach’s reins and rushes forward, pushing through the crowd. 

“What is this man being accused of?” he demands. He doesn’t care if all eyes are on him, for once. In fact, he’s hoping for it. If he can just get everyone’s attention off of Jaskier, then the bard might be able to escape. Somehow. At the very least, if he stalls for time, one of them can come up with a fucking plan.

“What is he _not_ being accused of?” answers one of the guards. “Sorcery—”

“Sorcery? This bard doesn’t have an ounce of magic in his fucking body,” Geralt interrupts. 

“Then you can explain why old Miss Agnes says she saw him perform in Vizima some forty-odd years past?” retorts the guard. “Ain’t no human can be in his fifties or sixties and still look that young.”

Admittedly, Geralt had not paid attention to Jaskier’s age or aging (or apparent lack thereof) out of principle. After all, he _likes_ the bard, enjoys his company; he would rather not create a countdown to his friend’s death, so he’s simply never thought about it. Geralt had always assumed that he would cross that bridge when he got there, but he is sort of regretting it now. There is no defense he can give that wouldn’t also be a condemnation to these fanatics, so he simply scowls.

“Anyway,” continues the guard, “there’s more. Sedition, adultery, indecency, sodomy, buggery, blasphemy, corruption of innocents, and witcherfucking.” 

Okay, that’s all fair. Jaskier does tend to sleep around a lot, and be almost excessively liberal with his choice of bed partner (or partners). Except, “Wait, what was that last one?”

“Witcherfucking,” the guard answers. Okay, so somehow Geralt had _not_ misheard. As much as he’s thought — and maybe even hoped — about it, though, they’ve never actually fucked, and he’s pretty sure that Jaskier isn’t fucking any _other_ witchers. “Weren’t even on the books before this one come along. Even whores have standards.”

Jaskier, who has never once known when to shut the fuck up, responds (very loudly) with, “As do I, my good man. For example, I would never fuck someone like you, even if it were guaranteed to stop the White Frost itself.”

And the guard scowls, even as a few of the townsfolk gathered around huff out a shocked laugh, and before Geralt can say or do anything else, the fucking prick throws his torch onto the pyre. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Geralt can’t put the fire out from here — if he were closer, and there weren’t people in front of him, he could cast Aard, and it might be enough. He can’t get through the crowd without hurting anyone though, and if he casts it from here the sign won’t reach the pyre. If he fights his way through the crowd and the guards, there’s no way he’ll be able to get to Jaskier in time. 

He still tries, of course. He’s shoving forward, and the crowd mostly parts for him because there is nothing more terrifying to some people than a frantic witcher. He unsheathes his sword, parrying easily as one of the guards takes a swing at him. The flames lick up ever higher as he dodges another one of their blows, and he dreads the screaming he knows he’s going to hear. If he can just get _closer_ , he might be able to save his bard. He ducks another slash from a different guard and whirls around to parry yet another. 

There is screaming, but it is not what he was expecting. The townsfolk are screaming, and Geralt hears a gentle _what the fuck_ from the pyre, just barely louder than the crackle of the flames. The guards drop their weapons as they stare at the pyre and Geralt is almost afraid to look. Still, he steels himself, whirls around—

Jaskier is unhurt.

He is entirely unhurt, even as the ropes binding him burn and weaken, even as the flames dance across his skin. His lips are parted in shock; apparently he was expecting this about as much as anyone else, which is to say, not at all. 

“Well,” he says, mostly to himself as his clothes burn away, “I suppose they’ll add ‘public nudity’ to the list next.”

Geralt wants to laugh, and he almost does, if only because he’s so fucking shocked. Only Jaskier would be set alight, not burn alive, and decide that the first thing to do would be to make a fucking joke about it.

“He has been chosen by the Fire!” someone shouts. The crowd breaks into something that is half conversation, half fanatical hollering.

“The Eternal Fire burns around him! He must be holy!”

“That’s why he didn’t age! The Eternal Fire keeps him!”

“Then why would he sin?”

“The Fire burned his clothes away but not his body! The clothes represent his sin!”

It’s fucking absurd, but hey, it’s working in their favour, so Geralt isn’t going to say a fucking word.

In the chaos, a very naked and entirely unburnt bard steps out of the fire. He’s still _on fire_ , but it doesn’t harm him. He gives Geralt a look that says _let’s get the fuck out of here,_ and Geralt doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t need the coin from the contract that badly, he thinks as they flee.

When they’re far enough away, and Jaskier is neither naked nor on fire, Geralt finally allows himself a moment to think about what the fuck just happened. He tries to take a few calming breaths through his nose, and that’s when he smells it.

Sulfur.

He puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder to still him, and leans in to scent him more closely. Yes, that is definitely sulfur. A lot of things start to make sense. 

The uncanny ability to find willing bed partners, the lack of aging, the charisma, the nearly insatiable libido, the scent of sulfur, the immunity to flames, they all point to one thing.

“Did you know you were part incubus?”

Jaskier squints at him. “You know, I never can tell when you’re being serious. Remember that time you tried to convince me you’d been given a contract on a tooth fairy? I damn near believed you.”

“You did believe me,” corrects the witcher, “and I am being serious.”

“Ah. Well. Hmm.” 

Geralt waits for the bard to say more, to give him an actual fucking answer, and heaves an impatient sigh when he doesn’t. “Jaskier—”

“No, no, Geralt. Give me a moment to think about this, would you? Let it all sink in, yeah?”

With another sigh, Geralt leans against the nearest tree, arms crossed, and waits for the bard to process this whole mess. He isn’t sure, admittedly, what the reaction is going to be, so he isn’t entirely sure what to brace himself for, or how to brace himself for it. 

Eventually, Jaskier shrugs and says, “Well, I didn’t know, actually, but I can’t say it doesn’t make sense.” 

That’s it. 

“That’s it?”

The bard raises an eyebrow at him, hands on his hips. “What, you think I’m just going to,” he waves one hand dramatically, as he tends to do, “fall to my knees and wail? Curse the cruel world for not conforming to my perceptions of it? I’m almost seventy, Geralt. I think I can handle new information by now.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. It makes sense, he supposes. Jaskier is very dramatic, though, so he’ll admit that he expected a bit more of a reaction just based on that. 

Perhaps Jaskier is a little less secure than he’s letting on, however, because he falters a bit under Geralt’s gaze. “I’m… Are _you_ okay with this?”

The witcher frowns, as he generally does. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” answers the bard, and _there_ are the dramatics that Geralt had been expecting. “I’m not who— or, _what_ you thought I was. It doesn’t change anything for me, but… I don’t know. You might…”

Geralt sighs, yet again. Jaskier makes him sigh a hell of a lot. “Jaskier, I don’t care. You didn’t lie to me. You aren’t hurting anyone. You’re just an idiot.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, really appreciate those kind words. You really know how to reassure a man, Geralt.”

Geralt does not dignify that with a response, and they lapse into a sort of companionable quiet. Not quite a silence, because Jaskier is never not making noise, but as close to a silence as there can be between them. 

“So,” Geralt says, breaking that pseudo-silence. “Witcherfucking?”

Jaskier chokes on nothing, and Geralt watches with amusement.

“I have no idea where they got that impression!” he says. “I was just singing!”

“You do sing about me a lot,” teases the witcher.

“You’re my _muse_!”

“You mean like the Countess de Stael was?”

The bard stammers something, flushing a deep red in his embarrassment. “That’s— there are different _kinds_ of muse, you boor!”

Geralt is not the best with things like emotional expression and reading others. He’ll be the second to admit that (because Jaskier will always beat him to it). Jaskier, though, is an open book to him. Part of it is the way he so openly shows his feelings, and part of it is all of the time they have spent in one another’s company. Jaskier can be a fantastic actor when he has to, but Geralt has gotten very good at seeing through him. So, when he notices the way Jaskier’s cheeks flush, the way he looks at everything but Geralt, the way he can’t keep his hands still, the way his heart rate picks up…

He’s willing to take a gamble.

“You know,” he says, voice still slightly teasing if only for the plausible deniability if it all goes wrong, “it’s a shame.”

“What is?” Jaskier asks warily, as though he knows he’s walking into a trap but is too curious to avoid it.

“They made a whole new crime, just for you, and you haven’t even done it,” answers the witcher. When the bard gapes and stutters at him, reddening more, Geralt strides toward him with a confidence he does not entirely feel. When he is deep in Jaskier’s personal space, almost nose to nose, he adds, “Just doesn’t seem right.”

“Geralt… I really, _really_ can’t tell when you’re just fucking with me, sometimes.”

Geralt hums, then moves in to kiss the bard, slowly enough that Jaskier can still stop it from happening if Geralt is reading the whole situation terribly wrong. To Geralt’s delight, he doesn’t move away. 

He isn’t sure if this is the strangest way he’s ever started a relationship. If anything, he’s never had one start normally. He doesn’t mind, though, because in the end, they’ve finally gotten here.

**Author's Note:**

> me: what if Jaskier doesn't know he's part incubus and finds out he's fireproof by being literally set on fire
> 
> Check out [my twitter](https://twitter.com/poselikeateam) for updates on my writing!


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